More like a Chicken
by FroggyFeet
Summary: Three conversations in which our sidekicks realise why they set up shop with some of the biggest idiots in their eras.
1. Ezio

Ezio jumped, hard. His arms spread behind him, his cape and cowl fluttering in the night air. His boots made a harsh, clacking grind against the tile roofing of the opposite house. The slating made an indignant shriek when Ezio turned to give an audacious wave to the guards on the other side, waving their arms and stomping their feet. A few of the smart ones started calling to the archers on nearby rooftops, but the _assassino_ was too fast for the _Guardia_.

The thieves didn't call him an Eagle for nothing.

Sometimes, he almost scared himself with the speed, the momentum he built up as he disappeared between chimneys and various roof gardens. He would be launching himself from a shop sign and landing squarely in a cart of flowers and leaves, but before he even smelt them he was already running down the streets of _Venetia_. Maybe he would slow to dance around a carpenter wandering around with his box, or saunter past a group of courtesans, just to dazzle them before he slipped away. He wouldn't stick around anywhere, because sticking around meant possible detection. Possible detection meant that the Templars, the Borgia, and whoever else has massed against him was in the know. He was there, in the shadows.

He was coming.

A part of him, the young, egotistical Ezio that had gathered those other boys to fight the Pazzi that day, where he cut his mouth, wanted them to know. Wanted to scream it from the rooftops, thunder through the markets, and stalk into the Pazzi family home and howl it to the rafters.

You're mine.

You won't live past Sunday, _stronzi_.

He leapt from one of the old beams as if he had no fear, landing perfectly in another conveniently placed patch of hay. As he pushed himself up and walked towards the workshop, he tried to style it out. But to be completely honest, anyone would stare at an unorthodox Italian man casually getting out of a seemingly innocent haystack, dust his ass off and wander away as if it was as normal as the weekly sermon.

Thankfully, it was rather quiet at this time of night.

Only the odd coo of a nearby pigeon or the drunken ramblings of a floundering beggar. Nobody to stare at him this time. He was across the road and knocking on the door within an moment, but instead of the usual bright Leonardo that would greet him, a lump of flesh with a mass of blonde hair met him at the door, clothes askew, eyes hazed, covered in paint. There was a garbled nonsense that followed, and a motion to enter, but if Leonardo hadn't stepped aside with an open arm, Ezio would have been standing dumbstruck in the doorway for a long time.

"Leonardo, what-"

"I have to finish a commission for a new Patron, Ezio. As usual I left it late. And now it's become an all-consuming nightmare in the shape of his daughter."

"What?"

Leonardo motioned to the painting on his nearby easel, once again a masterful thing that his friend had created. The painter made a strange garbled growl before he strode across the room, arms folded, "It is imperfect, and unfinished. But the old fool won't know the difference. He will see a rendition of his daughter, while I will see a pay check that allows me another go at my latest invention!"

"Leonardo, I have never seen you be so…"

"Nasty? The man is a brute. Making his daughter smile for the portrait was almost impossible. If I didn't need the money after the latest fiasco with the _Guardia_, then I would tell him to stuff his money up his-"

"What happened with the _Guardia_?"

"They trashed my courtyard, harassed another apprentice into leaving me and almost killed my cat."

"Almost?"

"My latest cook, Nanette, managed to throw a small plant pot at the offender and my cat ran away. I haven't seen him since."

"I don't take good enough care of you, _amico mio_."

"You do enough, Ezio. It is already much better than it used to be," the blonde finally smiled, a true Leonardo smile.

"Now, sit. Tell me about your latest adventure."


	2. Altair

The bureau was silent.

Malik padded from his room in the back, eyes wide, trying to get every drop of light that he could. Trying to see. He didn't have to, in the end, because the intruder was sat in the streak of moonlight filtering down into the small courtyard, sat on Malik's cushions with a thin white sheet draped over their head. He was sat with his legs crossed, one of the red pillows hugged to his bare chest, staring up through the latticework. The novice actually had the mind to close the bureau's skyward entrance. Malik felt a tiny swell of pride. The fool did something right.

"It is too hot for a blanket tonight, Altair."

The white-clad assassin looked over to him, but then returned his gaze to the sky.

"I don't know. I felt a chill."

"Hm. How was your day?"

Altair only spoke when Malik had fully settled beside him, sat cross legged on a blue cushion with his back propped against the wall. "It was good. I helped an old woman today. The guards get crueller with every visit. I am surprised that they manage to stay out of prison themselves."

"This place is nasty to the young, the old and the weak. Only the rich have any hope for peace, here."

"At least it isn't as bad as Acre. Bodies, sprawling in the gutters of the main street. Rotting in alleys, arrows piercing them nearly always. The feathers are always facing up, and always in their backs. Simply drunks walking home. The guards get bored on the nightshift and play hunter with strangers. Innocents."

"Not even given a simply burial rite?"

"No. Never."

"Like fish in a barrel."

"Yes. The guards are arrogant. Believe themselves gifts of God and everyone else is fair game to their fancies. I remember in Damas they tried to carry away a young girl. If I hadn't stopped them… I don't like to think about what they would have done…"

"It is good you were there then, Altair."

"But what about all the times that I wasn't?"

Malik looked from the stars to the eagle, and in an instant of looking at Altair's expression, he knew they weren't talking about wronged citizens anymore. "You were thrown from the room, Altair. This has been gone over many, many times. You couldn't do anything. By the time you got out of the tunnel, the way we got into the temple would have been swarming with Templars. You would have died. I barely got out."

"But I made a mistake. I should have been the one to pay for it. Or at least-"

"You have paid for it. You had to kill Al Mualim. You have had to rebuild our entire enterprise, worming out men that have lived in our halls since we were old enough to talk. Old friends and family, and you had to convict them for treason. Men we grew up with, Altair. You were strong enough to uphold our creed, regardless of the difficulties. You could have run, but you didn't." Malik watched as the eagle's head drooped, eyes staring at the floor more than the sky now.

"And besides, we both know why things turned out like they did."

Altair winced.

Malik continued, "We both read those journals. Al Mualim didn't like our friendship; he thought I dragged you down. And even when you became a dick we were still friends. And then I start asking the wrong questions, and he sees fit to get rid of me. Kadar wasn't made for fighting, and he was a bad assassin. Too much heart. Two birds with one stone. He sent us three to the Temple to get the artefact, and if possible, you would bring it back. He thought that me and Kadar wouldn't return. Then it all messes up, and I end up bringing back that cursed metal ball."

Malik grimaced, "So instead, he clipped my wings, and made me a Dai. A perfect caged bird, completely unable to be your partner in crime anymore. It was his order to amputate my arm. So that, Altair, is how I can sit here now without trying to bludgeon you to death with my stump. Because he used you. He made you into what you became. But you grew out of it. And look what you have accomplished."

Malik motioned with an arm, "leader of the brotherhood, and a good one too."

The Dai leaned forwards conspiratorially, "who would have guessed?"

"The counsel hasn't made me Master. I rejected the offer."

"You what?"

"I referred someone else."

"Allah Almighty. You didn't."

"I suggested you, the reason why I bothered to regain my honour at all."

"You what?"

Altair smiled, "I didn't kill all those men because Al Mualim told me. And it wasn't to get back my pedestal. I did it because I wanted to win back your respect. And when I brought you the head of the man who killed Kadar, you might forgive me."

"Instead, you brought me the heads of the men that brought us to ruin."

"Indeed."

Malik stared at the blanketed assassin, almost infantile in the way he was cuddling a worn old pillow. The Dai tugged down the linen sheet across his head, and it pooled lightly around the other man's waist. Altair looked up, straight at Malik, rather abashed.

"Why?"

"Why what Malik…?"

"Why bother? We are best friends. But this is…"

Altair twitched, and uncomfortably, began to try and use his hands in his attempted explanation. "You are… important. It just took a little while for me to realise that."

Malik smiled, rather wryly, "it just took a disastrous mission, the death of countless guards, commanders and some of the most dangerous men in the land, maybe the world, for you to get that?"

The eagle grinned, sheepish. "I was always a little dense, Dai."


End file.
